


July

by ghostburr



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, canon adjacent, like maybe someone looked at a copy of romeo and juliet in 2005, like maybe that person is me, then decided to write a fic, this started out as a romeo and juliet au and descended into something way off track
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr
Summary: Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms.
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	July

Hamilton got ready in his office, and loosened his necktie in the blistering July heat. Trying to shut off the anxiety in his brain-- distract it and tame it-- was the hardest thing to do. It fought for attention in the forefront of his mind and refused to yield. How anyone could think throwing a dinner party at this time of year was a good idea escaped him, regardless of the holiday. 

The summer was oppressive and miserable and brought out the worst in everyone, even the most sanguine of men. 

His eye caught the guest list for the dinner: forty-seven men, crammed into Fraunce’s dimly lit, dingy tavern, in a crowded city constantly on the verge of warring with itself-- Hamilton sighed and scrapped the letter into a nearby bin. If he stopped to think too much about it, he would end up not going. 

And then the rumors would start. 

_General Hamilton did not show at the Society of the Cincinnati dinner-- does he think he’s above it?_

He didn’t need yet another reason for people to question his motives; to give oxygen to the blazing rivalries. 

“You look nice,” Troup appeared in the doorway, wearing what Hamilton assumed was his nicest, if somewhat ill-fitting, jacket. 

“You look… adequate,” he teased. Hamilton looked at himself in the small mirror, watching Troup make a face in the reflection. 

“Well it’s the lightest coat I own,” Troup replied, “You know I have no eye for fashion. Jenny said it made me look handsome.”

Hamilton grabbed his hat from his desk, and ushered them out, “Jenny’s your wife. She is under an obligation to say such things. Come, let’s get this blasted thing over with.”

Troup kept pace as they descended the front steps together, into the muggy streets. Even as the burning sun set it stayed hot, a low hum of bugs and crickets filling the air around them.

“You’re not excited to see everyone? How often do we all get together, now, politics aside? I think it was nice of our parties to put aside our differences for one single night. Could do us all some good, if you ask me,” Troup reasoned, sidestepping a brown puddle. “The fact that most of these men even decided to show up, given the...viciousness... of late, is a good sign.”

They passed a group of gossiping older women; a group of children chasing a dog with a stick. 

Hamilton spoke, low, “I’ve been trying to tell myself that all week, but--”

“--It’s not the affair business, is it? Come now, Burr has better sense than to make a scene at a public dinner,” Troup matched his tone. 

The pair bobbed through another crowd of people: a small marketplace in which the merchants were closing down for the night. A loud peal of laughter punctuated their conversation, and they walked on. Hamilton waited until they’d turned a corner, and it faded in the distance. 

He swatted a fly, waving his hand in front of his face, “I know he does. And I know I deserve to answer to it all-- everything I said. Frankly I’m surprised it took him this long to call me out, but I’d never say that to his face. _Excuse_ me--”

Hamilton faltered, glaring at a boy who sprinted past him, almost knocking him over. Another noisy chorus greeted them down the street-- a thin and almost-hidden alleyway. The two men stopped to watch in grim interest as a pair of youths seemed to be gearing up for a fight. 

“Oh no,” Troup muttered, “Here we go again.”

“What is going on?” Hamilton looked from the fight to this friend. 

“It’s the bloody journalists. I swear a new one crops up on the hour, like weeds--” Troup picked up his pace, explaining, “Last month, while you were in Albany, a young man called Williamson-- works for your _Post_ \--was shot in the back by one of the printers at the _Aurora--_ ”

Hamilton followed him, “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. The boy is fine, but… he’s having a bit of trouble walking…”

“Bobby!”

Troup walked on, faster, coming upon the brawl. A handful of spectators surrounded the two angry youths, who, in a split second, were on each other, cursing and shoving. In the midst of it, Hamilton watched their papers scatter, followed by several wells of ink, spitting open on the cobblestones to the cheer of the gathering crowd. 

He cursed under his breath and grabbed one of the pamphlets and his stomach dropped at the sight: a passionate screed on his behalf, for the cause of his Federalist party. 

One of the youths shouted in pain, and Troup yelled out-- “Come, help me!”

Hamilton dropped it and looked up, but it was too late. There was a flash of silver and the sound of a blade being drawn; a knife was produced and one of the boys screamed. Troup dropped him in shock-- a pool of blood forming around his legs-- and the knife-wielding culprit disappeared into the night. 

“He’s been hurt, Hamilton, come!” Troup grabbed the wounded boy again, propping him up, “Everyone, back up-- give him air to breathe, for God’s sake!”

The crowd obeyed, craning their necks to see what had happened, shaking their heads and covering their mouths. 

Hamilton knelt down, “What happened? Oh--”

The youth passed out from the pain, and the two men saw the injury: the thumb of his right hand had been severed. 

“Jesus _Christ…”_ Troup muttered again, tearing his necktie off and wrapping it around the boy’s injury. 

A sudden wave of fury coursed over Hamilton, and he stood, glaring at the crowd, “You all just stood here and let this happen?”

“What were we _supposed_ to do? Get in the middle of it?” Someone called out smartly. 

Another voice, an older woman’s, “They fight every day, sir. It’s always the same-- it’s your federalists-- they started it--”

“--That’s not true,” a third voice rang out, and the gathering of people began to mutter angrily among themselves, “-- it’s the republicans. They’re the wild ones. They’re the ones with no moral center--”

Several members of the crowd jeered, and Hamilton felt nervous. He looked down at Troup and the boy, who was starting to come-to, “We need to hurry up and get out of here. Where is the doctor?”

“Someone ran to grab him, he’s coming,” Troup replied. He addressed the boy, “Can you stand?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Troup hoisted him up, and Hamilton helped carry him to a low stone wall nearby, propping him up, while the shouts of the street crowd grew louder. 

“Stay here-- do not move. The doctor is on his way,” Troup knelt down, and spoke sternly. 

The boy locked eyes with Hamilton; a brief flash of recognition lit up the boy’s eyes and guilt filled Hamilton’s stomach. _They are fighting your battles, General._

“I never wanted this,” Hamilton whispered, under his breath. 

“What was that?” Troup turned to him.

In another second, they were interrupted by a clatter of hooves and the sound of heavy metal wheels against the cobblestones. The crowd dispersed and some stood by to watch as the carriage door opened. A tall, broad man with an aristocratic bearing stepped out, using a cane and a hand to balance himself on his wooden leg, down the tiny stairs.

“What in God’s name is going on? I can’t leave this blasted city for more than two days--” Morris pointed at his two friends, “What happened?”

A different man, slim and bespectacled and nervous, pushed past him and rushed over to the youth. 

“And a good evening to you as well, Hosack,” Morris continued, eyeing the doctor. He then looked from Troup to Hamilton, “Well? Is anyone going to explain this?”

Troup left the boy in the doctor’s care, walking over, “There was a street brawl.”

“A street brawl that ended in a missing thumb,” Hamilton concluded. 

“You look pale as a ghost, Hamilton. I thought the war made a man out of you. At least, that’s what we’re _supposed_ to be celebrating tonight.” Morris replied. “You act like you’ve never seen a severed limb.”

Hamilton offered him a weak smile. 

Morris addressed the crowd, yelling, “If you all don’t get back to your bloody houses I’ll cane every last one of you. Now! Chopping each other’s fingers off in the streets-- Thirty seconds, that’s what you have-- don’t give me that look, Thompson--” He raised his walking stick threateningly at a sallow-faced old man, “--Get-- go! Any more of this nonsense and I’ll have the authorities hang every last one of you for breaching the peace!”

“That’s a little harsh, Morris,” Hamilton mumbled, adjusting his cravat. He wiped a band of sweat from his brow.

“Glad I came this way. Get inside the cab, I’ll give you a ride the rest of the way. It’s too hot to be wandering around in all that silk. No wonder everyone’s fighting like animals,” Morris motioned to the carriage. He watched as the two men climbed inside, raising an eyebrow at a blood stain on Troup’s forearm, “That won’t come out, you know.”

“Morris, _please_.”

Morris hoisted himself slowly back into the carriage, shutting the door and reaching out to smack the roof three times, letting the driver know to move. 

***

“It won’t be that bad,” Theo reasoned, handing her father his overcoat. “You said you wanted to prove yourself to Jefferson’s men-- that you’re loyal enough to not be tempted by a room full of raving federalists trying to win you to their cause-- isn’t this the perfect opportunity?”

“I do not want to think about it,” Burr answered shortly, grabbing his coat and slipping it on. 

His daughter rolled her eyes and stepped back, “You’re not still upset about that stupid woman, are you? It’s been two months. She’s not going to write back.”

Burr shot her a look, shoving a letter into his pocket, “When did you become so sharp-tongued?”

“I’m speaking the truth,” Theo reasoned, crossing her arms, “You always told me to be honest with you. Would you like my honest assessment now?”

Burr made a face, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye, “If I said no, I do not, would you listen?”

“You can either hear it now, or you can live in blissful ignorance until you’re blindsided and humiliated,” Theo reasoned. She watched her father sigh, closing his eyes. She tapped her fingers, “Well?”

“Very well. Out with it.”

“Your lady friend Celeste does not care for you. She has used your goodwill for gifts and trinkets. That is all.”

“Could you have softened the blow just a _bit_ , my dear?”

“And that is why you must go to the Society dinner, and eat good food, and drink, and be merry, because it will be beneficial on not one front, but two--” Theo followed him through the hallway of the luxuriously-furnished manor, counting on her fingers, talking at him, “--One, you will be distracted from this frivolous woman who refuses to commit and two, you will prove yourself to the republicans once and for all.”

Burr stopped and looked at his daughter, “Your confidence in me is sweet, Theo, but attending this dinner will no doubt only compound my problems, I am certain.”

Theo raised her arms, and let them drop, “Fine. Then go wander the streets like a lunatic all night.”

“If you would let me explain, before letting your temper get the better of you,” Burr cut her off, trying to catch her eye, “I am doing this because some agents of Jefferson have asked me to attend on their behalf and make sure there are no _poetical little plots_ in the works.”

“Like the one you alluded to in your letters?”

“I can say no more.”

Theo sighed again, getting frustrated, “I did not come all this way for you to speak in riddles at me about secrets and solitude and poetry!”

Burr put his hand on her shoulder, “You must trust me. It will all make sense in a few weeks.”

He stepped back, “Now. How do I look?”

“Fine.” Theo muttered. 

“As good as can be expected given what we have to work with, I suppose,” Burr sighed, adjusting his hat. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, “For your sake, I will try to have a pleasant evening. Or, as pleasant as it can be listening to praises be sung of other men while passing me over.”

Theo opened the front door and leaned on the frame, “Are you referring to military honors or Celeste?”

Burr smiled at her silently, and stepped outside. 

***

If he were being honest with himself, the dinner was the last thing he wanted to go to. Burr still held fast to his conclusion: better men were beating him, in both love and politics, and there was nothing he could do or say to change it. So he walked on silently, alone. 

He waited until the sun had set to leave the mansion in order to avoid any nosy staring. But it was no use in the curious city, and he heard his name being called and the sound of running boots against the pavement. 

“Burr! There you are!”

He turned, the friendly face of his associate approaching him. 

“Dayton, what a pleasant surprise.”

“You don’t look like it,” Dayton took a handkerchief and wiped his brow, catching his breath.

“Well I was hoping to have a bit of a private stroll. Much to think about,” Burr answered, continuing his walk. Dayton kept pace. 

“We’re headed in the same direction. It would be silly for me to follow ten paces behind.”

Burr nodded silently. 

“Glad I ran into you, frankly. We’re about an hour late. They’re going to be complaining about it for weeks to come, I’m sure,” Dayton went on. He stuck a hand in his pocket, “I got sidetracked a few blocks over. Did you know there was a bit of a brawl in the street, earlier this evening?”

“Was that what that noise was?” Burr looked over at him.

“Apparently some errand boy for the _Aurora_ lost a thumb. Not a good look for our federalist friends. Do you think we can spin it as an assassination?” 

Burr let out a bark of laughter, “You can’t be serious.”

“A planned attack, then.”

“Dayton,” Burr stopped, turning to him, “We will do no such thing. There is already enough violence in this city without us stirring the pot. It was two boys letting their youth and indiscretion get the better of them, nothing more. I am already sick at the thought.”

They walked on, and Burr bit the inside of his cheek. He stole a glance at the man next to him; could practically see the gears turning in his mind. 

“You can think whatever you want, Burr. But to me, it seemed planned. Hamilton was there, in the crowd, watching it--”

At the sound of the name Burr stopped again, “What?”

“He was there. And Troup. Urging them on. I have half a mind to challenge him tonight, if the moment arises, for such insolence--”

“--You will do no such thing,” Burr pointed at him. “The Society dinner is meant to make amends, not tear us further asunder. Do not speak of such things as if it’s a game, Dayton.”

“Alright, fine...” Dayton put his hands up, “I will keep _my_ temper in check, if they keep _theirs_.”

“I am serious,” Burr said furiously, stopping for a third time, grabbing the other man’s arm. He glared at Dayton, until the latter man withered. 

“What has gotten into you?” Dayton muttered, shaking himself free. He inclined his head, “Look, we’re here. Just relax and have a good time. At least there will be alcohol.”

Burr watched as he walked ahead, straightening his jacket. Dayton opened the tavern door and a brief glow of light emanated out of the tiny room, and his face split into a grin, greeting his friends. He waved to someone, and disappeared inside. Burr paused and adjusted his own collar, brushed his sleeves and inhaled. He came upon the door, and pulled it open. 

***

“Milk. That’s what Jenny will use,” Troup said, holding his bloodstained jacket at arm’s length in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, “Her mother taught her the trick. Soak the fabric in milk for a few hours, and then launder as usual. The milk will loosen the stain and the water will do the rest of the work.”

The tiny tavern had filled up quickly; the owner, Fraunce, looked delighted with it-- the best night of business he’d had since the summer began, he explained-- and he walked from group to group, engaging the patrons happily. Someone had brought a violin, and had begun playing loudly in the corner. Another man had asked if the windows could be opened to let in any sort of breeze. A third raised toast after toast to nearly every soldier there, until his friends took his drink away.

Hamilton stared into the warm amber liquid of his glass, vaguely listening to it all.

“You’re going to waste perfectly good milk on that old ugly thing?” A taller man, standing to his left, jeered. 

“It’s not that bad, Mr. Church, it was fashionable at one point…” Troup despaired. 

“One point twenty years ago,” the man named Church laughed. He nudged Hamilton, who watched the room over the rim of his glass, “Look at him, Hamilton. Just tell him to buy a new one for God’s sake. It’s not even worth saving at this point.”

Hamilton gave his brother-in-law a smile. He downed the alcohol.

“Not all of us have money to throw around,” Troup reasoned, folding the coat and shoving it onto a nearby shelf. 

Church went on, “Yes, but if you just invest in something expensive _now_ , it will keep--” He stopped himself mid-sentence, “Hamilton, are you still in there? You haven’t said a word since arriving. Looking for someone?”

Hamilton blinked, looking back at the other two men, “No, sorry. I’m a bit distracted at the moment. Just need a few more drinks, I think.”

Church let out a ringing laugh, slapping him on the back, “There’s the Hamilton I know. A few more of these and he’ll be singing on the tables.”

“Oh, Mr. Church, please…” Hamilton blushed, “You always take it too far. But yes, I think another drink is in order.”

“This dinner is for you, sir, don’t let anyone tell you differently,” Church added emphatically. “Would there even be a Society if not for the bravery and ingenuity of General Hamilton? Would July fourth even mean _anything_ , if not for him and his friends?”

“Please, Church, no more toasts. Colonel Smith looks like he’s going to pass out.” Hamilton laughed, finally. 

“There’s that grin. Look at how pleased he is. He knows.” Church finished his own drink, and beckoned for another. Fraunce obliged happily. 

Hamilton scanned the room again, finally letting the frightful scene from earlier in the evening slide off of him. He stole a glance at his brother-in-law, high colored and high-spirited, sharing a loud joke with Troup. 

The sound of the door opening broke his stare, and Hamilton heard a few more men let out a loud cheer at the arrival of more guests. Across the crowded tavern, his eyes locked on Burr’s, and the violinist hit a high note that struck Hamilton directly in the chest. 

***

Church pushed past him, and Hamilton spilled his drink. In the loud fray, he heard his brother-in-law’s voice ring out above the others. 

“You have some nerve showing up here, Burr,” he spat. 

Burr hung his coat up on a nearby hook, calmly, “I’m not going to fight you, Mr. Church. The matter has been settled now for nearly five years. How much have you had to drink?”

“Too much,” Troup slid in between the two men and grabbed Church by the shoulders, ushering him away. As he left, he called after Burr, “Lovely to see you.”

Hamilton stood in place, glass at his mouth, “You look well. The button has been sewn back on your jacket nicely. You can’t even tell."

“Your brother-in-law has a fearful temper. I hear whispers he wishes he would have hit my liver,” Burr indicated to Fraunce that he wanted a drink, and the tavern-keep compiled, handing him a glass. 

“That’s a miserable lie and you know it.”

“Have you seen Dayton? He came in before me and is in a bit of a state. I worry he’ll try and start something,” Burr took a sip. 

Hamilton studied him, “I’m surprised you showed up. What was the deal Jefferson made you? Was it monetary? A promotion of some kind? No doubt your reputation will be worth more after the eleventh.”

“Keep your voice down.”

Hamilton set his jaw, “You shouldn’t have come. My men will take it as impertinence. Especially with that scowl on your face.”

“I have been jilted by a lover and need distraction,” Burr turned to him, “Surely you can't fault me for that?”

“You look devious.”

“And you look like you’re one drink away from calling me your friend again,” Burr whispered, brushing past him. Hamilton closed his eyes and steadied himself against the tugging hook in his stomach, muscles dipping to the sound of the melody on the violin. 

He watched Burr find a seat in the corner of the room next to a small window, sit down quietly, and gaze outside at the glittering night sky. 

***

“You should say that a little louder, sir-- I didn’t quite hear you,” came Dayton’s voice, rising above the others. Hamilton turned towards the shouting; his heart dropping at the sight of his drunk brother-in-law pointing a finger at Dayton, who had crawled up onto a chair, “Say it louder, Church! Defend your words.”

To Hamilton’s dismay, Church obliged, making a walking gesture with the fingers on his right hand, “I said-- you and your boys are nothing but little strolling players, pretending at politics and following your daddy around, doing his bidding--”

A chorus of laughter erupted around Church, and he looked around at his audience smugly. In a flash, Dayton jumped down off the chair and landed his fist directly on the other man’s mouth, to the shock of the others around him. 

_“Stop--”_ Hamilton walked over and pulled his brother-in-law away, “What are you doing? Not here!”

“He’s got nothing to say for himself! Look at him, fighting like a child!” Church spat. 

Across from him, Dayton hyperventilated, “If it weren’t for the crowd I’d snap your neck, you old fool.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Church sneered, “But what would dear _Papa_ say?”

Morris appeared behind them, waving his walking stick and cutting through the noise, “I swear on God himself if there’s another fight in the works-- Church! You drunk idiot, what are you doing?”

“He punched me!” Church pointed.

“You insulted my friend!” Dayton shouted back, ‘You had better watch that mouth of yours.”

 _“Enough!”_ Morris bellowed. Hamilton loosened his grip on his brother-in-law’s shirt, and the bigger man went on, eyes blazing, “How dare you act like this-- fighting on a night that should be nothing but good will. What would Washington have to say?”

This seemed to work on the men. Dayton threw his hands up and disappeared into an adjoining room, swiping a drink from the bar and muttering angrily. Several men followed him in assent, assuring him he’d done the right thing. Hamilton’s eyes followed them nervously. He felt a charged presence behind him. 

“I’m leaving. This party has turned foul,” Church hissed, looking frightful. Hamilton winced, watching the bruise bloom under his cheekbone, bold red blood-bursts in the whites of his eye. He went on, “I should have known the republicans would have turned a respectable dinner into a bar-room brawl. Despicable.” 

Church slid his coat on, adjusting the collar, spitting the word like venom. Hamilton opened his mouth; no words came out. 

***

The night air had cooled considerably. Burr replayed Theo’s words in his head, strolling through the small courtyard behind the tavern-- _you’ll be happy you went. You need distraction._

“Burr!”

He turned to see a different man walking closer, glancing back towards the party as though he were escaping it. Burr sighed. 

Pendleton spoke, “Out here all by yourself?”

“It’s a beautiful night.” 

“You are the most distracted man here,” Pendleton looked at him.

Burr looked up at the stars again, “The night sky is never this clear in the summer. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the heat that fogs the air. But tonight…”

Pendleton mimicked him, and looked up. He smiled appreciatively, “You’re right. How prettily the celestial bodies glitter for us!”

A sharp pang of emotion hit Burr in his heart. He closed his eyes and dropped his gaze. 

“I take it there is more on your mind than stars and planets,” Pendleton lowered his voice and brought his drink to his mouth. “You know why I came out here, Burr.”

“I thought we had all decided not to discuss the matter.”

Pendleton exhaled, choosing his words carefully, “I was hoping to speak to Van Ness but I did not see him. I have another letter.”

He reached into a pocket, and Burr held a hand up. 

“You cannot give me that here. Find Van Ness tomorrow and give it to him. You know how this works.”

Pendleton’s shoulders sagged and he looked around, searching, “Burr-- you’re being too difficult. Why are you forcing the issue? I have looked over this letter, and Hamilton is being more than generous in it--please, just take it and read it over. Damn the code. We are human beings.”

Burr set his jaw, staring blankly ahead, “Summarize it for me."

“Come on.”

“I am serious. Does Hamilton apologize in it? Does he take back all the things he’s said about me, and sanctioned?” Burr turned to the other man, heating. “Does he admit to specifics?”

“It is not that simple, and you know it,” Pendleton tried. 

“The insults, Pendleton,” Burr gave the other man his full attention, dropping his voice to a hiss, “That I have bastards all over the city, that I am Jefferson’s pet, with no moral center, that I lie and cheat and steal to live beyond my means...that I debauch my own men as Savius and Catiline did-- do you really think I can ignore it? The rumors grow and take root and my chance to address them is slipping.”

Pendleton turned pink, “I know the severity, Burr.”

“And yet you still want me to prostrate myself--”

“--I want you to consider things from his perspective.”

Burr laughed derisively, raising his gaze, “Would that not require me to play both sides? I thought that is what Hamilton hated most about me.”

Pendleton shifted his weight, “Now you are just being obtuse.”

A raucous chorus of laughter escaped the tavern behind them; yellow light spilling out onto the ground in square patterns. 

***

“I have a headache. I am stepping out for a bit.” Hamilton set his empty glass down.

“You look it. Your eye is twitching,” Troup glanced at him. “Are you sure you don’t just want to go home?”

Hamilton shook his head, tipsy, “I’m not going to be chased out of my own party by some republican hooligans.” 

“There’s the Alexander I know,” Troup gave him a small smile. He inclined his head to the left, “There’s a little courtyard just out that door. I think we’ll be fine in here without the guest of honor. It seems the tempers have cooled.”

“Good. I am going to collect myself. If anyone asks, tell them you don’t know where I went.”

“As you wish,” Troup answered.

Hamilton turned and slid between the packed, chatting bodies. He gave intermittent smiles to vaguely recognizable men; felt hands patting him on the back, congratulatory. With each friendly touch, he grew more and more despondent. _Where had Burr gone?_ The thought cropped up when he looked around, and didn’t see Pendleton. He linked the two. 

He made his way towards the back of the tavern, craning his neck to look out into the courtyard. He opened the door and stepped out, and immediately heard the familiar voices. 

He darted, back against the nearest wall, obscured by the shrubbery and vines that cascaded up the side of the building. 

_There was Burr._

Pendleton’s pleading; Hamilton closed his eyes and tried to focus on the words being said. 

“...Thirty years between you. How can he account for all of that in a single letter?”

Burr’s response, “So you admit that he has been so free with my name that he cannot remember all the insults? That there are too many to name and count? You are not making a good case for your Principle, Pendleton.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to jump out and confront him. 

_Let your Second handle it. Those are the rules._

Hamilton had to strain to hear the next bit.

“Hamilton is… high-spirited. You and I both know he says things before thinking, Burr. You know he holds you in great esteem, as a personal friend.”

A scoff from Burr, “Please. He despises me and now everyone knows how deep his malice goes.”

“You have misinterpreted it, I _swear_ to you.” Pendleton responded. 

The conversation took on a sadder bent and Hamilton stared at the ground.

“I am adrift, Pendleton. Does he understand that? Does he understand that he has made me a lonely, isolated man, because of his rumors? There is not a single man in this city who does not eye me with suspicion, because of him. This will be a rectifying action for both of us.” 

“Do you want to rectify it? Or is it punitive?”

Burr’s voice strained, “I want to be his friend. But I don’t know what he wants from me. He blows hot and then cold and it makes me insane.”

“Burr… I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Hamilton peeked out from the vines and saw Pendleton put a hand on the other man’s shoulder in comfort. His heart softened. _So it was frustration._

“When it is over, my wish is for us to be useful to one another,” Burr tried again. He dropped his voice even lower, 

“You know he is a genius. The language is beneath him. The things I told him...in confidence...he is now using against me. It hurts too much to bear.”

“You speak as though you love him.”

Hamilton’s breath caught in his throat and he could hear his own blood pumping in his ears. 

“My feelings in the matter are too complex for words.”

Pendleton rustled the letter in his pocket again, “A strange way of showing affection to a friend, putting him in front of a gun.”

There was a lull. Then, Burr spoke, “You will make sure Hamilton understands that he can choose the pistols. Make sure he knows he has full reign. Let him choose a child’s toy, for all I care. But our friends need to know that I won’t stand for him divulging my secrets anymore, and that I care for him regardless of political affiliation. The stupidity of the entire concept-- as if we are warring clans-- passes belief.”

At this, Pendleton chuckled softly, “I will tell him.”

“And make sure he understands that I think him a true gentleman, that he is my equal in every regard, and that I--”

“--Sir, you must put your feelings about him in a letter,” Pendleton urged. “Hamilton has a gentle heart. He will understand.”

“I _cannot.”_

“Why not?”

Burr’s low reply, “It hurts too much to think I have misread him.”

***

Pendleton went back inside and Burr was alone. From his vantage point, Hamilton watched the other man make his way to an empty bench and sit for a moment. After a beat, Burr stretched out, laying on his back, eyes locked on the sky. 

The words Hamilton had said...what were they? He struggled to remember, and that was the issue. He flattened himself against the wall again, toyed absentmindedly with a leaf. He closed his eyes: debaucher, liar, proto-dictator.

_He cares for you, beneath it all._

Hamilton felt an arm on his, tugging at his sleeve. 

“What on earth are you doing out here? Come back into the party!” It was Morris, red-faced and jovial, urging him. “The band is playing your favorite song. Surely you want to sing?”

Hamilton shook the reverie from his mind, then, offering a weak smile, “...Fine. Yes. I suppose I can--" 

“--He says he will sing!” Morris looked back at the crowded dining room, raising his glass. The men cheered. Hamilton’s small smile spread wider across his face. 

“Look at him, acting shy!” One voice called out playfully. 

The band urged Hamilton on, and struck up a tune. The crowd quieted. Hamilton took a deep breath, listened to the pace and the melody and internally caught the pitch as though he were plucking a flower petal from the sky.

***

_Oh, he’s singing._

Burr sat up, the tenor drifting out from the tavern and into the dark courtyard. He caught a glimpse of the scene in the window: Hamilton, on a chair, raised above and apart from the crowd, all eyes on him, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering like stars-- 

_He’s beautiful._

Burr steadied his breaths, realizing it had been too long since he’d made an appearance in the dining hall. People would talk. Pendleton had been drinking and might let something slip. Troup would be hurt if he ignored him all night. Morris was too much fun and could always make him laugh. A darkness crept into his chest at the sound of Hamilton’s voice and the words he sang. 

_A soldier’s song._

Burr was drawn to it. He stood and brushed his pants, heading back towards the warm room. He opened the door to several eyes upon him, curious, wondering where he’d been. Hamilton’s gaze landed on him and the rest of the noise disappeared.

He was suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was and wished he didn’t leave his drink outside. 

_It was improper. What had Pendleton said?_

Burr shifted his stance, trying to ignore the judgmental stares of their peers, feeling his face warm. Some of the men stared into their drinks, somber. Others nodded and closed their eyes. A few hummed along, tapping their fingers to a soft beat, sitting at the bar. Only Burr met his gaze. His eyes traveled from Hamilton’s expressive brow to the curve of his mouth, the sharp chin, the slightly exposed neck, cravat pulled loose to help with overheating in the cramped room. 

_He is singing to you._

The walls seemed to close in on Burr; the bright, intense gaze and the poignant words cut him and he had to look away.

_He’s trying to tell you something._

Burr caught his breath, back outside, placing a hand against a nearby lamp post to collect himself as the noise of the party faded behind him. Hamilton finished his song to a cheer.

***

“That was _beautiful_ ,” Troup grinned, patting Hamilton on the back and leading him to the bar for another round of drinks. He brushed a bit of wetness from his eye, “I don’t think there’s a single man in here who isn’t touched. You have a way, Alex.”

Hamilton smiled quietly, sipping his liquor. His eyes scanned the room again, landing briefly on face after face. 

“Did you see where Burr went?”

Troup shook his head, swallowing, “He was here a moment ago. Looked a bit pale, if you ask me. My guess is he went home early. What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost midnight. Are you sure you saw him leave?”

“I didn’t see anything specifically,” Troup reiterated. He put his glass down on the bar with a soft thud, “Are you alright? Now _you’re_ looking peaked.”

Hamilton straightened his back, “I’m fine. I may leave early myself. I have a few things to tidy up at the office.” He cut himself off, the firm lines of his mouth told Troup not to push it. 

“Very well,” Troup said after a beat, “Be assured that you will be missed here. And your absence will not go unnoticed. Your bother-in-law’s behavior with Dayton will almost certainly be blamed for your departure, you know.”

Hamilton swallowed again, “I don’t care about the petty fights.”

“You _are_ sick.”

Suddenly, a rapid-fire sound of multiple gunshots rang out in the distance and the entire room paused in unison. Several men in the room gasped, some shouted-- still others reached for their own weapons hanging at their sides. Quickly, the playful atmosphere of the party dissipated into low, nervous grumbles and darting gazes.

Morris’ voice called out above it all, “Goddammit, what _now?”_

“Were those gunshots?” Another asked. 

“It came from that way, down that alley,” A third man pointed. 

Hamilton wiped his mouth and put his drink down, shaken. Troup watched him stand and straighten his jacket, speaking hurriedly, “That is as good a sign as any. I have to go.”

Troup followed him, “You don’t think it could be the same two boys from earlier, do you?”

A different man’s voice cut in, echoing Troup’s words, “The city is violent tonight. I saw two boys stab each other earlier this evening, assistant editors--”

“--That’s not what happened. It was a federalist miscreant who started the attack--”

Troup and Hamilton exchanged looks, and the latter man spoke first.

“I don’t know. But if it is, I don’t want this crowd to get to them first,” Hamilton looked around for Burr one last time, then back at his friend, “Bobby, if anyone asks, tell them I have retired to my office for the night. Tell them I do not wish to be disturbed, as I am finishing up some grueling cases.”

The crowd around them began to speak louder, among themselves, about the gunshots, arguing themselves into a fervor. 

“If someone is hurt, we should go check on them _now!”_

“Not if it’s a bloody republican scandalmonger.” Someone shouted angrily, “Where’s Burr?”

Half the crowd began to cheer.

Troup looked at the restless, drunken men, and then back to Hamilton. He opened his mouth to argue, and Hamilton cut him off with a raised finger, “Troup, I am serious.”

“Yes, fine, but--”

“--You are a true friend. Thank you,” Hamilton gave him a small smile, and exited through a back door.

***

Burr heard the shots ricochet off the buildings and jumped, accidentally stepping in a puddle and swearing, missing his step and landing on his ankle. The shots were so close he smelled the gunpowder and heard the pained grunt of the victim; the dull thud as his body hit the cobblestones in the alley next to him. He lifted his dripping boot from the water and limped, finding his way in the dark to a cold brick wall, hand out. 

“Christ…” He muttered, wincing in pain as he rubbed his leg. 

“Can someone help me? _Please!”_

The voice of the victim was faint, and fading fast. Burr slipped his boot back on and headed as quickly as he could to the sound of it. He rounded a corner and stopped, coming upon Hamilton who had already made it to the scene. 

He cradled the younger man in his arms as he frantically tried to wrap the bleeding wound with a torn piece of fabric that Burr quickly deduced had come from the sleeve of his own shirt. Hamilton looked up at the movement. 

_“There_ you are. Hurry, get over here and help me with him,” Hamilton demanded, sitting on his knees. The young man lay limp in his lap, white as a sheet, with Hamilton’s hands under his arms. Burr froze, and Hamilton raised his voice, “Did you hear me? Either come over and help me or grab the doctor!”

“Yes… of course,” Burr shook his head and wandered back down the street he came from.

“Wait--” Hamilton’s voice called out again. Burr paused and turned, looking back, watching Hamilton’s shoulders slump. He removed his hat, looking down at the unnaturally sprawled body in his lap. Burr sighed, closing his eyes. 

“It’s no matter,” Hamilton rubbed his eyes. 

“We should move him.” Burr headed back over, careful not to put weight on his left ankle. Hamilton opened his eyes at the sound of his footsteps. 

“Are you sure you’ll be able to?” He asked, frowning, “What happened to you?”

Burr shook his head, “Never you mind. Pick him up by his arms and I will get his feet.”

Hamilton blinked, watching him for a moment. After a second he maneuvered his arms beneath the deceased boy’s arms, “...Where were you?”

“I left the party. I wasn’t feeling well.”

“What is wrong with your ankle?”

The pair slowly moved the body to a nearby bench, gently laying the boy out. Burr turned from the scene, vaguely recognizing him. He covered his eyes and rubbed them, the pain spreading up from his ankle to his shin. He limped over to a wall and braced himself against it, bending over to take deep breaths. 

Hamilton stood up straight, ears perking up at the sound of an approaching group of men, “They’re coming to investigate the gunshots, Burr. What are you doing?”

“I am in pain.”

Hamilton looked from the body, to his torn, bloodstained clothes, to the other man who was leaning forward hyperventilating as if he’d just been in a fight. His skin grew cold, “Burr-- I think-- we need to leave. Now.”

Burr inhaled, trying to steady his labored breaths, “I can hardly move. I stepped in a blasted puddle and twisted my ankle.”

“The men from the dinner are going to come upon this scene and immediately assume the worst,” Hamilton walked over to him and slipped his arm around his shoulders, easing him up, reiterating, “We need to leave _now.”_

 _“But the boy…”_ Burr whispered, chest heavy. He looked back over his shoulder, “I _recognize_ him.”

“As do I,” Hamilton whispered, “Troup and I came upon him in a fight before we made it to the dinner. There is nothing to be done now.” 

The shouting mens’ voices grew closer and Hamilton’s heart raced. He maneuvered himself and Burr down a different street, straining his eyes to the near-distance. 

“Where is Doctor Hosack’s? He will help us,” Hamilton grunted, moving them both along. 

“Take me home. It just needs to be wrapped and put up. Theo could do it. Do not bother the doctor. Clearly he will have enough to deal with tonight,” Burr did his best to pull them both in a different direction, toward Richmond Hill. 

“You will force your poor daughter into the role of a nurse?” Hamilton asked, sarcastic, “Will she also clean and launder my clothes? She is no doubt asleep, and it would be incredibly rude to expect--”

A woman’s shriek cut through the dead night air.

“Oh…” Hamilton continued, breathing heavy, “...They must have found the body--”

A new surge of energy hit Burr in the chest and he powered through the pain, leading them back to his darkened manor. 

***

Theo rushed toward them as the two men opened the front door, her hair in a loose braid, holding a flickering candle.

“Oh!” She put her hand to her mouth.

“It’s nothing, my dear, don’t worry yourself,” Burr muttered, locking the door and sitting down in a nearby room. His weight hit the fabric of the firm chaise and he rested his head back. 

“You two look terrible, what happened?” Theo frowned.

“There was...an incident. Please, as your father said, don’t trouble yourself with it.”

“You’re covered in blood, Mr. Hamilton!” She whispered, eyeing him, “Why is my father limping? Was there a fight? I thought I heard gunshots but I didn’t want to wake the servants and cause mayhem--”

“--A youth was shot, several blocks from here. He was involved in a scuffle earlier, and the man he’d been fighting with came back to finish the job,” Hamilton sighed, making his way into the small room where Burr sat. He looked at the younger girl, “What do you know about nursing, Theo? Can you wrap an ankle?”

“Don’t--” Burr interjected. “Theo, just go back to bed. We will be fine.”

Theo set the candle down on a nearby table and brushed a lock of hair from her face, kneeling in front of her father, “Absolutely not. I will have someone draw a bath for you.”

“There is no need.”

“And I will fetch the laudanum,” she spoke over Burr, looking up at Hamilton, “Will you wait here with him while I go find the servants?”

Hamilton exhaled, “I can, Theo.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Run out the front door?” Burr called after his daughter as she disappeared back down the hallway. He waited until she was gone, then brought his gaze back to Hamilton, who took a seat next to him. 

The pair were quiet for a moment; Burr’s ankle throbbed. 

“You’re going to need a change of clothes,” he remarked softly after several seconds. Theo’s muffled voice drifted in and out of the room from upstairs. Burr scanned the other man, eyes landing on the deep red stain across his legs and midsection. 

They hadn’t time to discuss the overheard conversations or Hamilton’s singing or Pendleton’s warning. Burr inched closer to him, trying to discern a mood. He listened for the sound of water being poured into a large basin; a fire being lit in his room. Hamilton bit his lip and studied the floor, absentmindedly wiping his fingers on the same spot on his pants over and over again. 

“Would you like to stay here for the night?” Burr tried again. 

As if waking from a reverie, Hamilton blinked and looked up, “What? Oh-- I don’t know… if that is appropriate.”

Burr shrugged, “Suit yourself. You will need to change out of those clothes, however.”

“Milk.” Hamilton muttered.

“Excuse me?”

He looked over at Burr, “I need to soak these in milk. It will loosen the bloodstains.”

“Very well, we will endeavor to fetch you a bucket of milk,” Burr smiled. He stretched out, putting his arm on the back of the sofa. “In any case, we can’t have you wandering the streets covered in blood. Someone is bound to spot you and think the worst. I have plenty of room here-- the guest room at the end of the hall is furnished nicely.”

Hamilton chewed on a fingernail and stood, “If you don’t mind, I think I will retire. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Allow me to—” Burr pushed himself off the chaise, inhaling sharply at the pain.

“You don’t have to show me the way. I know where it is.”

“Nonsense. I’m heading in the same direction. I have to get up the stairs somehow. Are you going to carry me?” Burr leaned against a table, using it to maneuver himself further into the main hall. He moved from table, to chair, to door frame, to stair railing, making his way through the darkened house. 

***

“Are you certain you will be alright?” Theo put a hand to her mouth in concern, watching her father lower himself onto his bed. She stood in the doorway, concern etched on her face, the light from the low fire reflecting on her high-colored cheeks. The steam rose from the large basin of water in small, translucent spirals in the low-lit room. Burr inhaled sharply, reaching down to take off his boots, gripping the side of the bed for balance. 

“I will be fine, my dear. Please, go back to bed,” he managed. 

“You’re still pale.”

“I am shaken, that is all.”

Theo pursed her lips, thinking. A thought came to her, “Oh-- I had almost forgot.” She turned back in the doorway and disappeared for a moment, returning with the small glass bottle of laudanum. She set it on the nightstand with a tiny clank, and looked back at her father, “Please, promise me, if you feel any pain at all, you will use this liberally. I can’t bear the thought of you suffering.”

Burr picked it up, studied the label, “I will.”

“Is Mr. Hamilton settled?” She asked, pausing in the doorway one last time. “Shall I go check on him?”

“He will need a fresh change of clothes. Will you send him to me, please? I am certain I can find something for him to wear,” Burr answered. 

His daughter nodded and disappeared again. In another minute, she reappeared with Hamilton. Burr motioned for her to come closer, “Thank you, Theo.” 

She leaned and kissed his cheek, then pulled away, “You’re welcome. Please, take care. If there is anything either of you need, I want to help.”

The two men watched as she left again, reaching behind her to close the door. The latch echoed against the cracking and popping of the fire, and Hamiltons’ deep sigh. 

He crossed his arms, looking around.

“What are you thinking?” Burr asked softly. 

“It is a beautiful bedroom. Shame you must spend so much time away from it in your duties as vice-president.” There was an edge to Hamilton’s voice; a dull blade prodding at Burr’s skin without breaking it. 

“Well. I am here now. Please open the wardrobe against the wall over there and take what you need. Leave your dirty clothes in a pile on the chair and I will have Theo collect them for laundering,” Burr eased himself back against the headboard. 

Hamilton obeyed, pulling open the doors and reaching in to touch the clothes inside. He ran his hands over the soft fabrics: silks, wools, cottons-- all made with care and expense. All lined up neatly, thoughtfully organized. He breathed in deeply, a small, jealous flame burning inside his chest at the sight of it. He looked down at his own clothes, torn and stained and threadbare. 

The words left his mouth before he could think, “Can you afford these on your salary?”

Burr’s laughter in response, “Never change, Alexander.”

At the sound of his given name Hamilton felt the swoop in his abdomen again. He closed his eyes and let a small smile spread on his features. _You speak as though you love him._

“Just choose something and go, if you please. My water is getting cold and I would prefer not to undress in front of you,” Burr muttered from the bed.

Hamilton’s skin warmed in the dying light. He grabbed a loose linen shirt and a similar pair of breeches, and turned back around. 

“There was a man, a soldier I knew, in the army, who had a similar injury to yours. He was unable to get his clothing off , due to his injury and was therefore unable to properly bathe in the river and was too stubborn to ask for help. He smelled so bad no one would go near him and he died alone. Do not let your pride turn you into something less than human.”

“Oh…” Burr covered his eyes and laughed. “That is a fable that is told to young boys to get them to bathe.”

Hamilton draped the change of clothes over the back of a luxuriously upholstered chair, and walked over to the other man. He knelt down in front of him, looking up, “Let me see your ankle.”

“Hamilton…”

Hamilton ignored him, and his own jittery nerves, reaching out to touch the other man’s inflamed ankle, “I have medical training. I will be gentle.” 

Burr eyed him, “You will not. You hate me now.”

“This doesn’t appear to be broken. You are lucky. It is just a sprain, I think. Does this hurt?” Hamilton bent it slightly to the left; Burr nodded, yes. Hamilton went on, “If it were a break you would be screaming to high-heavens. You’re lucky, at your age.”

“At my age?” Burr laughed again. 

“The bath should help,” Hamilton stood, and motioned for Burr to do the same. He held out his hand for support and Burr grabbed it, pushing himself off the bed unsteadily. Hamilton spoke, low, “The hot water will ease the muscle tension and you will be in less pain.”

Burr leaned into him, and felt lightheaded. He paused, and a chasm of silent knowing fell between them. 

For several seconds, Hamilton allowed himself the feeling of the other man’s warm body against his, and he closed his eyes, hitting the point of no return. 

“Your singing tonight affected me.”

“Don’t speak of it.”

“ _Now_ you wish for my silence, when before you begged for me to speak,” Burr responded softly. He watched Hamilton’s emotions play out on his face, and then touched his cheek, turning his head, “Look at me.”

“Don’t do this, Burr.”

Burr searched him, their faces inches apart.

Hamilton closed his eyes, “I heard what you said to Pendleton.”

_“Ah.”_

The fire cracked again; the white steam twirled. 

Hamilton struggled, voice muted and unsure, “If you care about me, why are you doing this?”

“To put an end to the fighting, once and for all,” Burr reasoned, matching his tone. “If the parties can see their two de-facto leaders meet as equals to defend their honor, perhaps they will see that both sides are to blame for the violence in equal measure.”

“So you would have us act as living examples,” Hamilton responded. 

He’d lost track of how long they’d been standing there, holding onto one another in the warm, quiet room. The hot water made it humid and languid and it looked so inviting. His own muscles ached. Burr’s bed was the best in the house, there was not a doubt in his mind. The scent of him, and the soap used in the water, permeated the space around Hamilton and he suddenly felt like he couldn’t stand anymore. 

“Give me your hand,” Burr whispered. Without waiting, he grabbed it, “Place your hand against mine.” He pushed their palms together, the warmth from his skin mingling with Hamilton’s. Burr smiled again, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long. Look at how they are the exact same size.”

Hamilton let out a quiet, small laugh, “What does this mean?”

“That you and I are the same.”

***

Their clothes lay in a pile on the floor. Hamilton relaxed into the man behind him, sinking low into the hot water, smiling. He let the suffocating heat open him, the pleasant arousal coursing over his loosened muscles. He reached out and gripped the sides of the tub, watching the glow from the fire glisten on their wet skin, at once both tired and wide awake, feeling Burr’s chest rise and fall with a sharp inhale against his back. Burr’s breath hit his neck and he shuddered. 

“This is too decadent. You shouldn’t be living like this. No wonder the rumors fly,” Hamilton muttered, wiping a droplet of water from his cheek. 

“You can’t just _enjoy_ it, can you?” Burr whispered. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

Hamilton pushed back into him, “That is part of the problem.”

Burr brought his mouth against Hamilton’s ear, “So Catholic. Should I call for a priest to come bless our union? Would that make it less evil?”

At this, Hamilton closed his eyes and let out an involuntary chuckle. He brought his hand back into the water, cupping it. He rubbed his arm; his neck.

Burr answered for him, “That is what I thought.” He caught Hamilton’s wandering fingers and kissed them. 

“How long have we been languishing here?” Hamilton asked after another quiet minute. 

“I don’t recall. I thought I heard the clock chime two, but I am not sure.”

“How does your ankle feel?” Hamilton reached beneath the water and touched it gently. Burr watched the concern spread across his handsome features, and his heart softened. 

“You were right. It feels fine now. I should have trusted you.”

“Oh,” Hamilton breathed, falling back into the other man, “Say that phrase again.”

Burr dropped his voice lower, “You were right and I should have trusted you.”

“My political allies are going to think you murdered that poor boy.”

“You know that is untrue, and that is all I care about.”

“And if they exile you?” Hamilton turned his neck slightly.

Burr grabbed the other man’s arms, dragged his hands up and down the length of them, feeling the muscles beneath. He smiled, playful, “Will you run away with me?”

Hamilton stirred. The warmth on his skin and in his mouth and throughout his body evaporated his higher thoughts and a dark, gnawing hunger took its place in his stomach, maneuvering itself down, lower-- pushing the words from his mouth as if by instinct, “Your bed is big enough for two and more comfortable than the one in the guest bedroom. I want to share it with you tonight.”

“Your honesty will be the death of me,” Burr tilted his head back, grinning. He brought his gaze back to the man in front of him, “We cannot tell a soul, you understand, about this consummation. I know how you operate.”

“Never.” Hamilton replied emphatically. 

***

It was like dipping beneath the ocean, entering a different world full of writhing darkness and churning emotion. Hamilton opened his mouth and let out a pleading whisper; Burr’s fingers entwined with his against the sheets. 

His body burned and the sweat mixed with the water still covering their wet skin.

Once they began, they couldn’t stop.

Hamilton brought their mouths together, the pleasure spreading out from between his legs to the tips of his fingers. They fell into a pounding, relentless rhythm, stifling their moans to keep from divulging their tryst. Hamilton wasn’t certain he could keep it up, the way Burr called his name again, the composed magnetism Hamilton admired in the daylight coming undone with every slam of his hips. He watched Burr’s cheeks grow incrementally redder, and Hamilton’s hands searched his exposed flesh, grabbing indiscriminately. 

“ _Please_ , don’t stop,” Burr heard himself beg as though he were a different person. He bit his lip, the phrases he’d always wanted to say darting around inside his head, crawling up through his throat and forcing their way into the forefront of his mind; they fucked the secrets out of each other, and one by one the confessions came tumbling out, strained and desperate. 

Their words intertwined, descending from hushed praise to a darker lasciviousness-- _You’re perfect. I want you. That feels so good...please...harder…_

Hamilton groaned, pressed against the rich, scented pillow, driving himself crazy with the visual of it, managing, “If you fuck me good enough I might consider apologizing.”

“You’ll _never_ apologize,” Burr pushed harder, expression darkening into a sadistic grin, watching the other man’s mouth open in a silent plea. He increased his pace, “You’ll never apologize, and I love it. I love how proud you are, how _shameless_ , how brave--”

“--Tell me,” Hamilton braced himself, pushing back, lifting himself off the mattress and grabbing the headboard for leverage. 

It all came crashing over Burr at once: the respect he had, the admiration, the desire and fascination, building up inside of him as an unbearably pleasurable explosion of lust. Hamilton closed his eyes against it--the accuracy with which the other man slammed against the tender spot inside of him, hitting him so exact he began to swear and spit an angry invective against him. 

Hamilton bit his knuckles to keep from screaming; moaning into it from behind his clenched teeth, pouring himself out onto the sheets and his closed, stroking fist. _And he’s not stopping,_ the voice in Hamilton’s mind told him, _he’s not stopping, he’s still going, it’s too much --_ “Oh God.. _.please--”_

“...Please what?” Burr worked himself into a frenzy at the sight of the man beneath him, wet and spent, and he was close, “Talk to me again, Alexander.”

The pleasure wouldn’t abate and Hamilton’s words wouldn’t solidify in his mind; they spilled out, feverish, drawing upon their years of tension and shared desire- _-I’ve wanted this for so long. Make me yours--_ He felt Burr strain against him, the inevitable build-up combining with the labored breaths against his shoulder blades. The words did Burr in and he cried out against Hamilton’s skin, shuddering and slowing. 

Their breaths hung in unison and reality inched its way back, between them. The water cooled, and the fire dimmed.

***

It was as if it never happened, and wasn’t that what they both wanted? To be sure, it was-- it had to be-- and that was how they lied to themselves.

When Burr awoke in the morning, Hamilton was gone, and his clothes too, and the warm spot where he slept and the sound of his steady breathing. He rolled onto his back, rubbed his eyes, let the heaviness descend over him once again.

After a moment, he turned his head, gaze landing on the tiny vial of laudanum. He reached out and uncapped it, slowly sitting up in bed and bringing it to his lips.

The effect was instantaneous, and he slipped down, closing his eyes and dulling his mind against the gathering clouds of sadness and the needling, painful raindrops.

Some blocks away, Hamilton made his way to his office in the chilly, wet, blue pre-dawn. He adjusted the borrowed clothes, paused at the front door of his building to steady his nervous breaths. He looked around him, to make sure he hadn’t been seen. He opened the door with a small key and stepped into the dark corridor, bringing the sleeve of the expensive linen shirt to his face and breathing it in-- tobacco, mellow and sweet.

_It smells like him._

Hamilton made his way through the foyer and into the office proper, lighting a candle to prepare for the day. His stomach grumbled and his muscles still ached from the night of passion they’d put themselves through, pushing their limits and the boundaries of pleasure to heights Hamilton hadn’t thought possible. 

_You did, though. You knew it would be like that, with Burr._

He sat down in a chair and rested his head against his desk. He replayed their night and the things they’d done to each other and touched himself, biting his lip. 

_And in one week--_

“I am not going to think about it,” Hamilton spoke out loud to no one. He was tired, deliriously so. His cot looked inviting enough. He debated, and was interrupted by a knock.

“Bobby…?” Hamilton opened the door again to see the concerned face of his friend. 

Troup exhaled, relieved, “So you did make it home. May I come in?”

Hamilton moved out of the doorway to let him in, “You look pale. Are you alright?”

“The mob-- last night…” Troup took his hat off and held it in front of him, fretting, “We were right. They came across one of the youths we encountered, dead, shot.”

“Yes,” Hamilton shook his head sadly. “I will admit, it has me shaken. I do not know what to make of it.”

“You look as though you haven’t slept.” Troup walked over to him, features darkening, “It’s the duel business. I knew it. You must set things right before next week. I will go with you to speak to Pendleton--”

“--That isn’t it, I swear to you--”

“--This dreadful rivalry has been plaguing you since you were boys, Alex. It should have ended before it got to this point. Is that why you left the dinner early, because Burr was there?”

Hamilton made his way back into his office and Troup followed him.

“You have friends who will listen, you know,” he went on, “What about a mediation? Then, you won’t have to meet him on the eleventh--”

“--Bobby,” Hamilton cut him off, exasperated, “Enough. I said I do not wish to talk about it.”

Troup’s expression hardened, ‘There is something you’re not telling me.”

He waited for Hamilton’s response, and when it didn’t come, he looked around the room: the bed, untouched. The candle, still tall and un-melted as though it hadn’t been used. There was no water in the wash bin, no sign of food or breakfast. A creeping realization came over him, “You...you did not sleep here last night, did you?”

Hamilton averted his eyes, exhaling; his cheeks turned pink and he gave himself away. 

_“Hamilton…”_ Troup muttered, stepping back, looking at him. 

He met his friend’s gaze, and spoke in hushed, rapid tones, “Bobby, you must swear to keep our secret until your dying breath, do you understand?”

“You ask too much of me, Alexander,” Troup put a hand to his forehead, “This is too much… you two are…”

“It was one night. Nothing more. We thought we could…” Hamilton held up a hand, explaining, eyes unfocused, “...Make our intentions understood; marry our feelings into something less _drastic_ than a duel-- I don’t-- we weren’t thinking clearly, Bobby, you have to understand--”

“--This _compounds_ your crimes, you do realize that, right?” Troup’s voice grew strained, “If anyone were to find out, it would be the end of both of you. What were you thinking?”

“We weren’t,” Hamilton responded, shooting him a look. The excuses bounced around his head again: _the tensions were high, the timing was right, our desires are the same._

Troup closed his eyes and took a deep breath, putting his hat back on, “I will fix this. I will speak to Van Ness. He will talk sense into Burr.”

“Bobby, there is nothing to fix!”

It was too late; Troup turned on his heel and fled back through the hall and outside, into the brightening dawn.

***

Burr slept through the day, and came-to in the stifling heat of the late afternoon. He woke to the sound of Theo’s voice and hand gently shaking him awake.

“You’ve been asleep too long…” she whispered, “I was beginning to think the worst. How much of this did you take?” She picked up the vial of laudanum from the nightstand, blanching, “...Papa...half of it is gone. This was to last six months.”

Burr sighed. “Put it down. I cannot handle your judgments right now.”

“Please,” Theo tightened the shawl around her shoulders, “I can’t leave without knowing you’re alright.”

“I am awake, aren’t I?” He responded, short. 

“There is no need to be mean.” She stood again, and looked around, “You should have someone in here to empty the tub and clean. It will make you feel better, and clear your head.”

Burr pushed himself up slowly, still dizzy from the opiate, “I do not need my head to be cleared. I am fine.”

“I am taking this,” Theo grabbed the vial before her father could argue. “You clearly cannot be trusted. For a moment I was panicked that you wouldn’t wake. You know how powerful this can be.”

“You are heading back to South Carolina today, I presume?” Burr called after her, watching his daughter disappear back down the hallway.

“Yes. The carriage is almost ready.”

“And you will take that wretched attitude with you, I hope,” Burr said under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Theo. As you were.”

He rose out of bed and shut the door, looking around and sighing at the unsightly mess in the cold light of day. His eyes landed on the lukewarm water, as if it held a special power. He leaned over it, looking down at his distorted reflection, imagining the scene from the night before, and the way Hamilton felt against him. 

_It does not have to be the last time._

Theo left that evening, kissing her father a brief, cold goodbye.

Burr sat by himself in his office, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestone carry her coach further away from him, echoing sharply off the trees. The crickets and soft cries of the night birds picked up in the low light, and he was alone again. 

***

Time seemed to move faster. It was Thursday, and there were letters to write. Burr struggled, trying not to sound despondent. How to set things in order without giving cause for alarm? None of the men from the dinner spoke to him; none seemed to care that he’d left early, and wasn’t himself. His head pounded and he wished he put up more of a fight when Theo took the medicine with her. 

A soft knock at the door, and Burr turned in his seat to see Van Ness standing in the doorway, hesitant. 

He placed his quill down, “Come in, don’t just hover.”

“I do not wish to disturb you,” Van Ness responded. 

“A bit late for that,” Burr snapped. Then, thinking better, “I am sorry. Please. Just come in and keep me company. I take it you have another letter from Hamilton?”

Van Ness shook his head, “No, I do not.”

“I see.”

“I am here of my own volition. The dinner party, on the fourth--”

Burr closed his eyes and exhaled, rubbing his temple, “--Dreadful. I assume you are talking about the crime that happened later that night. Have they caught the perpetrator?”

Van Ness shook his head again. He studied the other man for a moment, then, “They are saying you have something to do with it, because you left early. No one knows where you went. They are saying you were in a strange mood. Some say a dark one. And as payback for the attack of earlier that evening you killed the boy.”

 _“I had nothing to do with it,_ ” Burr responded emphatically. 

“You have to be more careful with your reputation, Burr,” Van Ness added. “Just hold out until the meeting. Make your honor known, and then this will all be behind you.”

“What do you think I’ve been planning?”

“There is a new rumor…” Van Ness stopped, nervous. Burr stepped forward, and he continued after a beat, “...There is a rumor that you spent the night with Hamilton, and he intends to use that information against you. He will have you arrested.”

_“What?”_

“I thought about going to Pendleton first, but what good would that do, when his Principle is the conspirator--”

Burr cut him off, angrily, “What sense does it make? Would not Hamilton be in as much trouble as I am, if it were true?”

Van Ness averted his gaze, “He intends to say you coerced and tricked him.”

“From whom did you hear this?”

“I could not see their faces,” Van Ness answered, watching as Burr began to pace. “Just some talk at the tavern. It is probably nothing, sir. Just idle gossip. I am certain neither you nor Hamilton have ever attached yourselves to the type of…” he searched for a polite word, “...radical vices to which it is referring. I only came to tell you the talk that is circling around the city, so you may better prepare your defense, should the need arise.”

Burr paused and covered his face. He sat back down in his desk chair, hunched over, “I am finished.”

“No, sir, don’t despair--”

“--The rumors…” Burr sat up straight again, gripping the arms of the chair. He glared at the other man, and dropped his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, “...Are not entirely false.”

Van Ness frowned, “...Sir?”

“I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Of course, with your life, but--”

Burr stopped him, standing again, stepping close to him and grabbing his arm, “--Then listen to me. Find an apothecary and purchase a vial of laudanum. It does not have to be more than a few ounces. Deliver it to me as soon as possible.”

Van Ness' expression changed from confusion to something darker, “Sir-- please-- there is a way out of this. Your friends, we will work tirelessly.”

“Just do it. Do not ask questions,” Burr replied, heart pounding. “Once you have delivered the medicine to me, please-- find Pendleton and have him convince Hamilton to come see me. _Please_. Work as quickly as you can.”

Van Ness nodded briefly, and left.

***

It was Friday, and Hamilton had finished the bottle of whiskey that sat on his shelf by his desk. 

The sun dipped below the horizon. 

The note from Van Ness’ visit, written in Pendleton’s hand, sat on the windowsill, un-opened. His mind was heavy and clouded. He couldn’t bring himself to read it. There were cases to close, official letters to send to clients and colleagues. His _wife_. The guilt made a hole in his chest, and curled down inside of it. 

***

It was Saturday. Van Ness slid into Burr’s office as silent as death, placing the vial of laudanum on his desk. He stepped back, preparing his defense, “Hamilton would not come. That is what Pendleton told me this morning.”

“Did you speak to Hamilton, directly?” Burr stood. 

“You know that’s against the rules,” Van Ness argued. “We cannot be seen together. As you should have known, going into that dinner.” He prodded Burr with a finger, “I do not mind being your errand boy but I cannot lie for you if you insist on breaking the code and putting us all in danger.”

***

Sunday. A church service. 

Hamilton hated being alone in the city. Hated the stifling heat and the foul smells and the prostitutes that leered at him. He’d been steadily drunk for two days, avoiding mirrors. He swayed in the pew, alone in the back, leaned forward to hide it, prayed. Shifted in his seat and flipped idly through the hymnbook. 

_Sinner. You know what you’ve done, and what you have yet to do._

The sermon ended and he lifted his eyes, searching out the Bishop. 

“Sir…” he called, to no answer. The congregation dissipated around him, filtering out and talking among themselves. Hamilton pushed through the crowd, heading in the opposite direction, trying again, “Sir, please, if you have a moment--”

Bishop Moore looked up from his book, blank expression, “Mr. Hamilton.”

“I must-- I need to have a word with you, Sir, please, it will only take a moment--”

The Bishop eyed him with distrust, and Hamilton’s heart sank. He spoke in even tones as the church emptied and they were alone, “It has been a long time since I have seen your face in these pews. Are you well?”

“I am…” Hamilton’s throat tightened, as though the words were wrestling inside of him. He managed, “I have made a _mistake_.”

The Bishop’s features softened, and he placed a fatherly hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, “You must first seek forgiveness within. I can sense you are still struggling. Go home and meditate on your sins, and come back with a renewed heart. I will be waiting for you.”

He gave Hamilton one final, kind look, and turned his back. 

***

Monday-- storms. Burr peered out the window; the trees whipping themselves against each other in the wind. He warmed his hands by a fire, shivering as though with fever, but in perfect health. He grabbed a book of poetry, settling in on an upholstered sofa. 

***

“You should not be alone,” Troup said softly, Tuesday evening, holding out a new bottle of whiskey, standing in the doorway. Hamilton eyed it, craving the alcohol to quiet the anxiety. He moved out of the way and let his friend in. 

“You look pale,” Troup continued. “We shall drink this to your health.”

“My health,” Hamilton laughed quietly, sadly, following his friend back into the office. He shut the door, “Have you spoken to Pendleton?”

Troup turned pink, “He says Burr is adamant.”

 _What does that mean?_ Hamilton wanted to ask, but couldn’t. It was all happening too fast. He studied Troup’s expression, concentrating hard on the tight bottle cap. His old friend who’d prayed with him at college. His face crumbled. 

“I have to ride to see my children tonight, Bobby.” 

Troup blanched, _“Alex--_ you speak as though-- _”_

Hamilton held up his hand. 

***

Wednesday arrived, humid and malarial, the worst kind of summer morning. Burr woke up sweating, still clothed, unable to get comfortable in the thick sheets and heavy bed curtains of his bedroom. He lay quietly in his office, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the birds began to sing and he knew it was time.

He reached for the tiny vial on his desk, tilting it back and taking a minuscule sip to calm his nerves. 

***

Hamilton was late-- _how unlike him_ \-- Burr thought. He studied the man, and his nerves twitched. Handsome, proud, unapologetic. Beautiful in a cruel way. The glasses made him look refined and hid the dark circles of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. His coat was deep green-- _how pretty must his irises look against it--_ The small frame, so much like Burr’s that he’d seen it one million times before and knew it like his own, every dip and muscle-- how Hamilton _liked_ it. Delicate shoulders and well-shaped legs. That voice. _Oh, he’s beautiful--_

“Burr, the weapons,” Van Ness muttered, handing it to him. Burr blinked, looking down at the pistol, feeling it in his hands. Cold and heavy. His second spoke again, “Are you alright?”

“I took something to calm my nerves.”

“Oh, not the laudanum,” Van Ness muttered, taken aback, “Sir, your faculties must be firm this morning. There can be no error. You should not have-- sir, are you listening? Shall I tell Pendleton to give us a moment?”

Burr took a deep breath, “That won’t be necessary.”

Ten paces away, Hamilton thought he might faint. 

“He looks green. Do you think he’s slept? That is an old coat.” Hamilton muttered, watching Pendleton clean the pistol and prepare it. 

“Shall I set the hair trigger, sir?”

“No,” Hamilton inhaled, putting a hand to his abdomen. _The butterflies._ He removed his glasses to clean them. 

“Your hands are shaking, sir,” Pendleton muttered, “Perhaps I can fetch you some water?”

He put his glasses back on, breathing in deep, the hot, wet air setting in the back of his throat like a lump of emotion. The scent of tobacco hit his nostrils and he reeled. He opened his eyes to the glare of the sunlight on the river, burning his face and hurting his eyes. 

_You should not have faced the rising sun._

Burr’s body was obscured. Hamilton knew what it looked like. 

***

“ _Please--”_

Burr heard the hoarse whisper escape his tight throat. The smoke cleared.

“Hosack will be here in minutes,” Van Ness’ arms around him, “You have to get out of here. Let’s go.”

Burr allowed himself to be led to the boat, body acting independently of his mind. He settled in, rocking, nauseous, against the churning river water. 

He stood, uneasy, “I have to speak with him. Let me--”

“Sir, sit down!”

 _His_ voice, crying out above the trees.

Burr couldn’t sit still-- “Sir, please, you need to stop moving, the water is rough”-- Van Ness’ voice hit him indistinctly. He stared out over the river and the glistening sunlight. The trees obscured where they’d just been, lush and green. He pretended all would be well-- he hadn’t meant any of it. He dipped a finger in the water and dragged it as they rowed, making ripples.

Hadn’t Hamilton checked the aim of his gun? Cleaned his glasses? Stood in a compromised direction with the sun in his eyes? Chosen the very pistols that they’d used?

His thoughts, usually deep beneath the surface, were visible on his face. Van Ness put a hand on his arm. 

“Sir...all will be well. Hosack will take care of him,” his friend muttered. Burr could hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

They reached the opposite bank and the seagulls screamed at them, taking flight as the boat hit the dock. Everything moved slowly and Burr’s limbs felt heavy, clumsy. He missed another step and his ankle burned. 

“You cannot go home right now,” Van Ness said in a low voice. He led Burr from the docks to an alley, “They will be looking for you.”

“What do you mean?” Burr asked stupidly.

Van Ness replied, “Just follow me. We will go to a mutual friend, Truxton.”

Burr nodded numbly, “We were friends in the war.”

“Yes. He will give you lodgings until the fervor has died down.”

“I don’t understand…”

Van Ness turned to him, grabbing him by the shoulders firmly, “Look at me, Burr. _Look--_ if this ends badly, you will be wanted for murder. _All_ of your indiscretions will come to light. And you will be charged. And you will be hanged. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Burr blinked slowly, convinced that were he to open his mouth, his resolve would crumble. 

Van Ness jolted him, _“Do you understand me?”_

“Yes.”

“We need to get to Truxton’s. He lives just down this road here. He is an honorable man and will not judge you,” Van Ness led them further down a different street, pausing in front of a tall, thin brick building. He reached out and rang the bell, wincing as the sound echoed off the walls. In the next second, an older man appeared, worry alight in his features. 

“Sirs...Mr. Burr… what are you--” Truxton wrapped a loose jacket around him, frowning, “Is everything alright? What is going on?”

Van Ness spoke, “Mr. Truxton, I apologize for showing up like this, but we are in desperate need of your help.”

The older man let them into the foyer, eyeing Burr, who’d turned white. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Truxton asked, leading them into the kitchen and indicating they sit at the table. He set to work pouring three glasses of water. 

“We have just come from across the river, in New Jersey. I do not know where to begin,” Van Ness took a gulp, placed the glass down, and rubbed his forehead. He raised his gaze to meet Truxton’s, “Please, sir, promise me that what we say here will be kept in the strictest of confidence.”

Truxton looked from Van Ness to Burr, “I will do my best, but--”

“--There has been a duel,” Van Ness cut him off. 

Truxton sat, expression darkening, “...What?”

Burr stared into the glass of water; distorted reflection. 

“Is that why you two look afright? Waking me at this ungodly hour? Burr, looking like he’s seen his own death? Mr. Burr, are you listening?” Truxton shook his arm, _“Sir--”_

Finally Burr spoke, “He fell. There was a tree branch.”

Van Ness shot him a look, trying to shut him up. Truxton cut in, “What is he talking about? Who fell?”

“Hamilton.” Burr breathed. 

“Christ almighty,” Truxton swore under his breath, falling back into his chair. He covered his eyes. Then, “What on earth happened? Were you not both at the dinner, just last week? Singing and talking as if nothing were wrong? How long has this been planned? I do not believe it.”

Van Ness cut in, “We cannot give details. Please, understand.”

“He sang to me,” Burr slumped in his chair, and put his elbows on the table, resting his face in his hands. He pressed his fingers into his eyelids so tightly he saw stars: blacks and oranges spiraling together like fireworks. 

Was that it? Was that the last fond memory he would have of the man? He tried to grab onto it: the vision of Hamilton’s brilliant gaze and smile and voice, and not the way his body arched in pain and cried out and hit the earth. His chest heaved. 

“I will not speak on the matter,” Truxton said, matter-of-fact, “Only that we military men have a different way of conducting ourselves and that we are all students of the code. Were it Hamilton sitting here before me I would treat him no different.”

“Thank you, sir,” Van Ness responded, and Burr was thankful his Second was able to keep his wits. 

The three men were silent for what felt like an eternity. Burr lost track of how long he’d been covering his face. He wanted to both run-- to steal a horse and ride until they both collapsed-- and fall asleep and never wake up. 

A thought crept into his mind. 

“We shall be soldiers about it,” Truxton spoke again, stern, like a parent. “Colonel Burr.”

At the sound of the military title, Burr looked up.

Truston went on, softening “Both you and General Hamilton are my friends. Let us remember the happier memories of him. A brave soldier, a man who worked tirelessly for the good of the nation, some would say genius, I think--”

At this Burr felt the dam burst, and he lowered his head, letting out a sob from somewhere deep within him that ripped through his chest like a torn parchment. It was all too much-- flashes of their shared life materialized in his mind with a rapidity he didn’t know he was capable of: an awkward, nervous teenager greeted him, talking about hurricanes and pirates. A brave solider with a mind made for battle, as complex as his. An energetic lawyer and statesman, charming and beguiling even in his contrarianism. The tears spilled out of him and his face burned with embarrassment at it.

“Sir...please… I ought not to have said anything,” Truxton said.

Van Ness moved in his seat, putting a hand on Burr’s back, “Please, be firm, Burr. All may be well. We do not yet know the outcome.”

Burr steadied his breaths and inhaled, clearing his throat. He sat up straight and took a sip of the water, unable to look the other two men in the eye.

“He is a dead man,” Burr whispered, voice breaking again. “And so am I.”

***

That evening, all is quiet. Burr tilted his head up, making patterns and constellations out of the random spattering of stars and twinkling celestial bodies. He’d once believed that the road to heaven was open to all alike. 

The manor is as dark and empty as a crypt. Burr made his way silently through the foyer, the hallway, wandering the rooms in a trance. He leaned against a door frame, strained to hear if anyone was crying out in the night. There was, it seemed, an audible murmur through the city as the news traveled. He imagined Hamilton’s wife-- collapsing in grief. His children, gathered around his deathbed, confused and upset. Burr’s eyes stung. He shoved his hand in his pocket and grasped the tiny vial of poison. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. 

***

Morris’ eyes scanned the somber crowd, searching for the face of one man. No one had seen Burr. Rumors abounded, like always, hovering around Morris’ ears like gnats. He wanted to swat them away-- even raised a hand at an unsuspecting journalist, who begged him for some kind of story-- and immediately thought better. _Burr is on the run. A mob has found him and killed him. Burr has killed himself._ The sentences and guesses were inane.

No one could say where he’d stolen off too, ashamed and marked and hollowed out. It didn’t matter. Burr as they had known the man was gone.

He was absent, and for that Morris was thankful. 

He swallowed, keeping his eyes on the oration in front of him and not the teenage boys beside him whose blank expressions made his heart sink. 

It had all happened too fast, and they were powerless to stop it. Morris wondered what had transpired between the two men to make them fall like this. He looked down and his finger traced the outline of the words he’d struggled to pen. The words he _wanted_ to say-- we are all at fault for this-- we have cultivated this garden--and now our two brightest roses are dead. 

“Fellow citizens,” Morris began, finding his voice, “If on this sad, solemn occasion I should endeavor to dampen your emotions, I would be doing an injustice. I will struggle with my bursting heart to portray his heroic spirit which has flown to the mansions of bliss. Such was his zeal, and so brilliant his service, that we heard his name before we knew his person. It seemed as if God has called him suddenly into existence, that he might assist to save the world.”

He paused. 

There was a lesson, here. Bitter and sharp, scraping the sides of his throat as he swallowed it, like a bone.

“Fellow citizens, you have long witnessed his professional conduct, and felt his unrivaled eloquence. You know how well he performed the duties of a citizen. You have seen him contending against you, and saving your dearest interests, as it were, in spite of yourselves.”

_I charge you to protect his fame-- it is all that he has left._

Morris clenched a fist against the podium, biting the inside of his cheek. What had it all been for? 

“On his part, as from his lips, though with _my_ voice--for his voice you will hear no more--” Morris looked up again and met the eyes of the men in the crowd, picking them out one by one: Troup, Church, Dayton, Pendleton, Van Ness, “Let me entreat you to respect yourself.”

The words halted inside of him. Morris’ voice carried itself briefly across the crowd, and dissipated before it could reach those furthest from him. He watched them stir, frustrated at his lack of conclusion. 

_There is no way to get over the difficulty which attends the details of his death. How easy it would have been to make them all, for a moment, absolutely mad._

  
  



End file.
